


||WIP|| Run

by Anonymous



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Astronomy, Experiments, F/M, Gen, Insanity, Lab Partners, Mental Health Issues, No Smut, Reader-Insert, black holes, space
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-12
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2020-12-09 08:20:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20991764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: After restoring Sigma to partial stability, another mental case rolled in for Dr. Smith to tend to. However, as Dr. Smith worked with you and you grew increasingly aware of your situation, things started to clarify rapidly, prompting new challenges and conflicting ideas to arise. Perhaps Talon was not as glorious as it seemed.^^I ultimately failed at creating a vague yet compelling summary... I’ll fix it later. Anyways, enjoy! :)





	1. Hope?

**Author's Note:**

> To whom this may concern, this work will only—at least primarily—be updated in the summer months (June-August).
> 
> Please don’t be shy and feel free to point out any continuity, grammar, spelling, etc. errors you find in this. I am only human after all. Also, if you just have some general writing advice or have a suggestion for how I could improve a sentence, paragraph, section, chapter, etc., please let me know as well. All help is appreciated! :)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> -Character introductions: Dr. Irene Smith, Dr. Siebren de Kuiper “Sigma”, Reaper, and extras 
> 
> -Brief backstory
> 
> -POV: Third person into second person 
> 
> -Status: Completed, revised somewhat

The accredited psychiatrist stood poised before the heavy, ancient metal thing that served more as a barrier than a door, hastily reviewing the notes on her new assignment: (Call/sign). She was no stranger to dealing with hauntingly horrifying cases and murderous, uncontrollable psychopaths so, (C/s) didn’t seem to be much of a threat to her. However, if the mere infantry men of Talon had lived to tell the tale, they’d most certainly beg to differ about her silent assumption. Sure, the woman behind the few, heavy-duty titanium doors locking her inside a padded cell and protecting others from her spontaneous outbursts seemed kind and peaceable enough at initial observation, but once burdened with the task to sedate her, the poor, damned soul was ensured to at least have some severe mental scarring—that is if they somehow managed to make it out alive. (C/s) was not a force to be reckoned with, and most certainly was the most dangerous and unpredictable case the infamous organization had had since its establishment; her abstract abilities even surpassed the brute force Subject Sigma had when he went through his own episodes. 

Then, as she stood there nose-deep in the dossier, a man cleared his throat, announcing his presence to the important professional. “If she goes psycho on you, press this,” the masked man pressed a small, silver device into her palm, a button filling up the center of it, “and if you can without jeopardizing your life, give her this,” he held up a rather large syringe, the top capped with a magenta piece of plastic, “but don’t fret if you feel as if you can’t sedate her. You’re the only person in your profession that has stayed as long as you have; we can’t afford to lose you. Also, don’t let her see the syringe at all costs or you’ll have a nightmare on your hands.” 

She nodded, placing what she could only infer to be a personal alarm in her right pocket and tucking away the syringe full of whatever nasty sedative they used in the inside pocket of her black blazer. Satisfied with her simple actions, the man known as Reaper left, leaving her to her own devices yet again. Even if her life was at stake, she was already not planning on using the drug the masked man had given her, well versed in how little the organization actually cared for their agents’ physical and psychological health. The only reason they had hired her in the first place was to coax the broken astrophysicist, Dr. Siebren de Kuiper, that they crudely deemed Sigma after the title the government had given him, to a more tranquil state so that they could fully harness his power and vast knowledge. None of their reasoning had to do with his well being, but theirs. She was a rarity among the oddities, a woman who still had and could express empathy; her heart had wept for Siebren once she heard of his story and foul treatment. While she had worked with him, she tried her best to restore pieces of his sanity, but found the damaging actions of her superiors to be frustrating roadblocks that often times reset their progress. But, alas, there was nothing she could do; she was just there to follow orders and complete tasks, not critique the inner workings of Talon. 

Carefully folding the detailed report on her patient and hiding it away inside her leather bound notebook, she heaved open the hefty door with her shoulder only to be greeted with another door akin to that of the first. There were a total of four doors leading to (C/s)’s cell, the last one disfigured with sizable dents and a couple holes from what she assumed to be bullets that had somehow pierced their way through the sturdy metal. As she stood there, tears pricked her eyes, the gravity of that woman’s unfortunate situation finally becoming surreal; she was constantly locked away in isolation, cut off from the rest of the world, and drugged with most likely illegal sedatives in a much too high dosage. She could only hope that she could restore the woman’s sanity and control to the point that she no longer had to be doped up on toxic chemicals 24/7. However, that was wishful thinking and she was well aware. 

Brushing invisible specks of dust off her outfit and blinking back tears, she pushed open the last door, the hinge letting out a wretched screeching from the sheer effort that it took to open it. Were all those barriers _ really _ necessary? She’d be soon to find out. 

Blinding white light spilled out from behind the battered thing, stinging the psychiatrist’s eyes until they adjusted to the harsh brightness. The room was rather small, but took the shape of a perfectly symmetrical cube; the walls and floor were a pristine, heavenly white and covered in slick-sheeted padded squares, the ceiling climbing up for what seemed like forever. 

She was quick to spot her patient, sitting huddled up in the corner to her left, her head buried in her knees. For all the professional knew, (C/s) was unaware of her presence all together. Although you did not show it, you knew that there was a stranger in your far too bright room of imprisonment and weren’t too fond of it. Usually when someone came to visit, they’d roughly jostle you around only to inject that terrible sedative into your neck that made you loopy for days on end; being constantly drugged was not a favorable situation. 

“Hello, I am Dr. Irene Smith,” she introduced, hoping you’d follow suit. That name didn’t ring any bells in your mind, but that didn’t rule out the possibility of her being another wicked person. Why was she even there anyways? What did they need a doctor for to drug you? Weird. 

Dr. Smith received no response, prompting her to take a few, slow strides forward, her footfalls barely sounding against the padded floor. 

Before you knew it, the doctor was sitting at your side, courteously—more likely fearfully—leaving a foot or two of space between herself and you. You wanted her to leave, to just let you be! If you were going to be locked in an isolation room all your life why couldn’t you experience _ total _ isolation? Nothing ever seemed to pan out in your best interest. 

“Do you mind lifting your head?” Dr. Smith asked, her voice barely rising above a soft whisper. Why was her voice so kind and inviting like a charity worker reaching out for a hug? Everyone else seemed to have their voices permanently stuck in an angry, annoyed, and/or fearful tone. Perhaps the doctor was different, but that thought really wasn’t all that palpable. 

You complied to her gentle command, lifting your head from your bent knees, but kept your eyes firmly shut. 

She momentarily studied your features, noting just how more hollow and sorrowful you looked in person. You poor creature. You didn’t deserve any of the cruel treatment you had received while there. Who knew what had even happened to you already while you had been locked away in that godforsaken government facility? From what little she had heard from Dr. De Kuiper, she understood that at least for him, the government had left him alone more often, but openly ridiculed and swore at him just to provoke him. They had called him all sorts of inhumane things ranging in severity. Talon had sense enough to not enrage their subjects purposefully—that was one thing they had going for them. 

“May I ask you a few questions?” she inquired. “You can choose to refuse any questions that you do not want to answer.” 

Wait, had you just been given an option?! With the others it was strictly do as your told and no one gets hurt. “Yes, you may.” 

“First of all, what is your name? Or what do you preferred to be called?” Dr. Smith asked, pulling out her leather bound notebook and a simple ballpoint pen, clicking it into place. 

“Dr. (Y/n) (L/n), but everyone here insists on calling me by the name the government assigned me: Subject (C/s),” you answered, bowing your head and opening your eyes gradually. You had found that if you didn’t look directly up or forwards, the lights were more bearable. 

“Why were your eyes closed?” Dr. Smith continued after finishing jotting down her previous note. 

“The lights hurt my eyes and can initiate a migraine,” you said simply, slowly tracing a circle around the bone of your ankle with your index finger. 

She recorded another note. “How would you describe the treatment you receive here?” 

“It’s,” you paused, “not the best.” 

“Is that your honest opinion?” 

“No,” you shook your head slightly. “I absolutely _ hate _ it here, despise it, _ but _ they promised me that after enduring this, I’d become a hero.” 

She cringed. Of course they had fed you the same lies they had shoved down Siebren’s throat, those very same, exaggerated tales of the so called honor, glory, and inner peace you’d receive for carrying out their secretly sinful wishes. “Why do you ‘hate it here’?” 

You brought your hands together, tightly squeezing them and sighed. “The sedatives.” There really was nothing worse than having a strong grip on consciousness yet not being able to move a muscle without great strain; it was as if you were trapped in thick tar and no matter how much you struggled to break free, all your efforts came to no avail every time. It was like being imprisoned in your own body. 

Dr. Smith nodded in agreement. “Yes, those chemicals are rather nasty.” 

“Can I ask something?” you piped up. 

“Go ahead,” she smiled, looking to you in eager patience. 

“Why are you _ really _ here?” you questioned. There must’ve been some diabolical, exterior motive for her placement. 

“Well, Talon has had a few what they call ‘tough cases’ in these past couple of years. They needed someone to help mend the minds of their new agents so, they eventually found me; apparently, I’m the only one in my profession who has stayed as long as I have.” She was careful to leave out Siebren’s—and any other patients’—name, unsure of how you’d react to the mere mention of him. 

“So, you’re here to... “ you trailed off, wanting her explanation to be put in more simpler, clearer terms to ensure their meaning. People were exceptionally adept at lacing their sadistic, _ true _ intentions in seemingly harmless words nowadays. 

“... help you. I am going to try to get them to stop using those sedatives, and will try to aid you in controlling your abilities,” she reworded. “On that note, can you explain to me what happened _ that night_?” 

You shuddered at the thought, swiftly brushing the horrific memories that crept to the forefront of your brain away. “Skip,” you quickly said. 

“On a scale of one to ten, ten being the most control, how much control do you think you have on your abilities?” 

“One. And that’s a little gracious,” you answered. 

“What happens before you lose control?” 

“This dreadful melody in my head gets so loud to the point I start to fear my head and eardrums will explode.” You visibly grimaced. That persistent bugger was something you had tried numerous times to expel, but each and every time, it eventually returned to reclaim you as its eternal prisoner. 

“Can you describe it?” 

“It’s in minor.” Before proceeding, she observed you for a moment, taking mental notes of your fidgeting and squirming. 

“Do you wish to talk about something else?” she suggested, wanting you to feel as comfortable as possible in her presence. Checking in also always helped build a rapport with her patients. 

“Yes, please,” you said shortly. You hadn’t even realized how fast your heart had been pounding until then. 

She took a moment to collect her thoughts and formulate a proper question away from the previous topic, despite her numerous internal queries she still had about the subject. “How distressed are you feeling today on a scale of one to ten?” 

“What’s ‘ten’?” you asked. 

“Well, what is a ten to you?” she replied, thoughtfully redirecting the question. 

“An episode,” you muttered. Those damn things... You didn’t necessarily enjoy losing all sense of self and perception of the world around you only to wake up and come to terms with your unintentional, hazardous actions. 

“So, what are you at right now?” 

“Teetering between a four and five.” 

“How or what are you feeling?” she inquired, head slightly dipped to the side. 

“Confused, lost, angry. And that damn melody keeps coming back, it’s volume ever-changing today,” you admitted through gritted teeth, your fists balling up in the slightest. Why couldn’t everything just make sense? Why did that melody _ have _ to be ingrained in your brain?! Why had you even chosen to help out goddamn Siebren de Kuiper with that project?!! 

“Is there anything you’d like to say before I leave?” Dr. Smith asked. Your scowl quickly disappeared with a blink, your focus snapping away from your thoughts.

“Is there hope for me?” you asked more meekly than intended. If there wasn’t, you knew very well what you had to do. 

“I believe there is, yes,” she answered with a sweet smile. “Anything else?” 

You simply shook your head. With that, she stood up and walked to the heavily abused door—that was littered with large gashes and dents of varying sizes, courtesy of the one, the only (Y/n). “It was nice meeting you, Dr. (Y/n) (L/n).” 

“It was nice meeting you too, Dr. Smith,” you beamed back, still having to force a smile albeit it was rather nice to be addressed by your proper name and title. 

“Please, call me Irene, or if you must, Dr. Irene.” With a wave and a bright smile, she heaved open the door after scanning her badge, it slamming shut behind her, its mechanisms immediately locking into place once more. What a peculiar woman. 


	2. Shattered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> -Character introductions: Moira O'Deorain
> 
> -Backstory
> 
> -POV: Third person into second person
> 
> -Status: Completed, revised minimally

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Constructive criticism would be very much appreciated; there are lots of things to fix in this chapter and things that could be worded better—so many that I often can’t find them after initially spotting them lol!
> 
> I am pretty terrible at conveying emotion as I hardly understand it myself (even the body language cheat sheet I use can’t help me catch everything) so, explanations and/or tips on how I could better do so would be much appreciated! :)

“She has been restless lately,” Dr. Moira O'Deorain reported, pulling up the live feed of (C/s)’s cell. She was currently pacing up down the length of one of the walls, eyes trained on the floor and mouth muttering rapid, incoherent phrases. 

Dr. Smith studied the screen briefly, humming in thought, and then, turned to face Moira, asking, “On average, how many times a month does she get visitors?” 

“That depends on several variables, but if all goes well, usually just once.” Dr. O'Deorain didn’t bother to look to the psychiatrist beside her, her gaze fixated on the video. 

“It’s only been a week since I first introduced myself to her. Do you think it’d be okay if I were to visit her today? I don’t wish to interrupt the routine of visitors,” Dr. Smith questioned. “I know that even just the slightest change can set someone off.” 

“Everything with her is a gamble,” Dr. O'Deorain stated. There really was no definite answer to her query. 

“Have you noticed a pattern with her episodes? Do they usually happen after something changes?” Dr. Smith’s brows furrowed as she tried to piece together the right course of action. The lack of information—probably from a lack of care—was rather irritating. 

“There are no known consistencies with (C/s), I’m afraid. That’s what makes her such a difficult subject,” Dr. O'Deorain replied. 

“In your opinion, should I give visiting _ (Y/n) _ a try today? Or should I wait until next month rolls around?” She was a stickler for treating and addressing her patients like people, not mindless subjects. 

“Well, what possible good do you think would come of visiting her today rather than later?” Dr. O'Deorain turned to face the other, using her heel as a pivot, her eye twitching in the slightest in annoyance. To her, (C/s) was just another subject, a toy to experiment with and break as she pleased. 

“If we were to take her restlessness as a warning sign of an episode then, maybe conversing with her might delay or completely stop its progression. However, this disruption in routine could send her into an episode even if this behavior isn’t a warning sign,” she explained. “The pros and cons pretty much equally balance each other out.” 

“The next question is whether or not you’re prepared to witness an episode.” Her mismatched eyes darkened and narrowed ominously, her voice lowering.

“If it’ll help me aid her in her rehabilitation then, I am ready.” Dr. Smith nodded, a lock of her curly, dark brown hair moving to cover her eye with the motion. 

“Then, have we reached a decision?” Dr. O'Deorain asked, a brow raised. 

“I assume so,” the brunette said, brushing the lock of hair out her eye. 

Despite Irene’s insistence, Dr. O'Deorain still ordered for a group of soldiers to be on standby if anything went haywire. It’s better to be prepared than sorry, right? Then, Irene scanned her badge and entered the numerous doors, pausing to take in a deep breath before shoving open the last. Hopefully, the whole ordeal wouldn’t have a sour turn out. 

You were frantic, breathing quick and labored, heart thumping loudly, perspiration forming, thoughts stuck in a rapid repeat like a broken record sped up several times too fast. The blindingly white walls were no longer, your feet briskly pacing in the confinements they had learned from memory, twenty five steps forward, turn, twenty five steps back. Your mind had consumed you like the irresistible pull of a black hole, claiming you into its agonizing, spiraling abyss. At least that tune wasn’t threatening to rupture your ear drums, its presence merely a slow, gentle twinkling akin to that of a lullaby. 

Squinting her eyes until they adjusted, Dr. Smith looked for your figure, finding you just as you had been on the screen, if not worse. She easily spotted the typical warning signs of a panic attack, but was rather unsure how to proceed as she did not know the motive. However, her philosophy was that it was better to do something than nothing so, she carefully approached you, tapping you lightly upon the shoulder when you were in an arm’s reach. Like a chain reaction, she flinched immediately after you did, out of instinct rather than fear; she still did not know the extent of your capabilities when under extreme stress. She moved to face you upon your stopping. 

Her green irises softened upon the sight of your contorted features and widened eyes. “(Y/n), it is me, Irene.” Her gentle voice was nearly drowned out by your rampaging thoughts, it muffled to a mere wisp. 

You didn’t respond, rather, couldn’t respond, your jaw clenched so tightly. Even if you could’ve pried open your vice like muzzle, would anything had even come out? 

“Presently, one to ten? How distressed are you?” she calmly asked, her voice holding a quality akin to that of the feathers of a cooing morning dove. “Do you remember our system? Ten being an episode?” 

Your mouth nor your hands moved a muscle, rendering you unresponsive yet again. 

“How about this: can you nod for me when I say the correct number?” Dr. Smith proposed, not waiting for a response. “One... two... three... four... five... six... seven... eight... nine... ” 

You provided a quick nod, hoping that that’d suffice for the time being. 

“Can you bring yourself back down to a more neutral number? Perhaps a three?” Gradually, she reached to take your hand into her own, wanting to see if physical touch was at all a comfort for you. 

In a manner that indicated a definite answer, you shook your head.

“How about an eight? Can you do that for me, just calm down to one tick mark below your current state?” she suggested, taking a more slowly paced route. 

You shrugged. Could you? 

“Here, breathe with me, okay?” She took in a deep breath, holding it for a few seconds, before releasing it in a loud exhale. She continued to breathe in that way, it helping her placate herself as well. Handling panicking patients and not getting worked up herself was always a strenuous feat, it taking all of the strength and courage she could muster to keep herself level-headed. 

After a few minutes of silence, she asked, “One to ten?” 

“Eight,” you replied, voice still shaking. 

“Good. Now, can we bring it down to a seven?” She noticed your eyes had wandered and quickly, but not abruptly, brought her hand to your chin, directing them back to her placid façade. Once your attention returned to her, she retook your hand, holding it tenderly as if it were made of the finest porcelain. 

You never gave her a response, but she continued onwards anyways. “Do you mind if I place my hands on your shoulders?” 

You offered a simple shrug to her courteous query. 

Her fingers just barely grazing you, she rested her hands atop your shoulders, looking you in the eye, her gaze strikingly peaceful. “I want you to focus on something that you enjoy or that soothes you whether it be a song, a memory, a place—whatever it is, I want you to imagine it until it is tangible.” 

Something that soothed you? _ What _ soothed you? Then, as if on cue, the oddly quiet melody released a few notes, calling you to it. Taking her suggestion, you began to hum that both beautiful and wretched tune, it changing its role temporarily. 

She waited until she felt your tense shoulders relax beneath her touch, your pupils dilating in the slightest. However, you still were wringing your hands, but the action was at least less feverish than before. “One to ten?” 

“Six,” you said, eyes darting around for a moment before returning to her. 

“What are you looking at?” she asked, no notes of judgement or scorn in her question, just plain curiosity. 

You sighed lightly, admitting, “I feel as if someone is watching me—not you, but like a phantom.” 

“Do you feel this way often?” Her head tilted slightly to the side, her eyes trained on you. 

“Yes,” you exhaled, ragged, but still coherent. 

A look of bemusement crossed her features before they unwound again, revealing the peculiarly tranquil, friendly slate once more. “One to ten?” 

“Four. Thank you.” A rare, relieved and gratuitous smile, small but still there, tugged at your lips, saying much more than your words ever could—even the words of your native language. 

She smiled back, pleased that you were in a more content state. “There is no need to thank me, (Y/n).” 

You nodded, still feeling as if your Thank you had been necessary. 

“I never did ask, and I’m terribly sorry for assuming, but do you wish to be addressed by your title?” Dr. Smith asked. 

“I haven’t been called Dr. (Y/n) (L/n) in ages; I suppose it would be nice, but you don’t need to uphold formality,” you mused. “Just (Y/n) is far better than (C/s) any day.” 

“You deserve the credit you’ve been denied. Do you mind if I address you as a doctor?” she stated. 

“Not at all,” you replied, humming contently. 

“Well then, Dr. (Y/n)—do you mind me calling you that?” 

“The only name I am not fond of is (C/s).” You cringed; that name was a demeaning little gift the government had given you, denoting you as a thing, a _weapon_, and no longer a person. 

“Okay,” she nodded. “Are you more stable now?” 

“Shaky, but stable, yes,” you answered. 

“Do you mind telling me why you were so frantic?” she inquired carefully, aware that she was possibly skating on thin ice. 

You shrugged, “No idea. It just happens sometimes.” 

“Any specific thoughts or memories?” she pressed. Identifying the source and problem was the first step in the healing process. 

“N... Not that I can remember,” you said, your minding coming up with a blank. 

“Is amnesia common with your episodes?” Dr. Smith blurted. 

“Unfortunately so,” you nodded. 

“Ah. Very similar to—.” She abruptly stopped herself from uttering Dr. De Kuiper’s name. 

“To?” Your eyes narrowed quizzically, almost expectantly, at her. 

“—other cases,” she sputtered. 

“Is that good or bad?” You raised a brow as you waited for an answer. 

“Neither. I’m just making an observation,” she replied calmly. Whew, that had been a close one! 

You shrugged, satisfied with her answer. 

“I’ve noticed that you’re much more talkative today. Is there a specific reason?” 

“Dr. O’Deorain mentioned mania last time I had an... episode.” Your voice lowered at that word, hating it with ever fiber of your being. 

She threw her head back slightly as if she had just unlocked all the secrets of the world. “Ah, bipolar.” 

You couldn’t help but raise your brows at that sentiment. 

“What’s wrong?” she asked, her almost triumphant demeanor turning to that of concern. 

“Oh. It’s just that I’ve never had that word used to describe myself,” you stammered. Then, you paused, thinking. “Y’know what? That actually makes a lot of sense,” you chuckled. 

“Well, I’m glad it does,” she beamed. “Do you think manic episodes might cause your outbursts?” 

“It’s certainly a possibility and could be a contributing factor,” you said, nodding. 

“May I ask a few questions about your past?” she asked rather tentatively. 

“Is it not common knowledge around here?” You titled your head slightly. 

“Confidentiality is key,” she stated, “and even if it were public knowledge, I’d still want to hear it in your own words.” 

“Ask away,” you said, a little tendril of fear squeezing around your heart. 

“What is the furthest back memory you can remember? Take as much time as you need to,” she inquired, taking out her notebook and clicking her pen into place. 

It took a few moments of raking your brain, quickly sprinting past unpleasant memories, to find the answer to your question, your brows furrowing in thought. Flatly, you informed, “September 4th, my first day of elementary school, grade one. The clearest thing I can recall is waving goodbye to my parents that morning and then, befriending a girl I’d later learn to hate in senior high.” 

“Describe your relationship with your parents.” 

“There wasn’t much to it really. We were a normal, nuclear family unit, very close to my mother’s side of the family as they lived a few doors down,” you explained. “Although they didn’t really approve of my choice of study in college; said it was too outlandish and unrealistic for a girl like me. Made sense though, they had always been the rather conservative, religious type who disregarded many facts of science on evolution and such.” 

“Did their disapproval cause any problems?” she asked. 

You shrugged lightly. “No, not really. Sparked one or two arguments, maybe, but nothing more. Still kept in touch though.” 

“Are you aware of the happenings of the Omnic Crisis?” 

You hesitated. “Yes, however, neither my family nor I were directly affected. Well, my step brother did give his life in support of the human side of the war during his stay in the military.” 

“Step brother? Were your parents divorced?” 

“Yes, but they split long before I could ever be aware of what was happening. My father remarried, but still kept in contact with my biological mother, wanting to keep everyone together for my sake. A good man he is—was?—really.” You really didn’t know if any of your family was still alive and well, the world having been out of reach for so long. 

She hummed in thought before proceeding. “Now, can you tell me about the girl you mentioned earlier? And anything significant that happened in your senior high years?” 

“Excuse my language, but she just turned out to be a dumb bitch, succumbing to the rampantly growing culture of sluts. Didn’t really dwell on it then and still don’t,” you answered bluntly. “Graduating two years early was the highlight of those years.” 

“Describe your senior high self.” 

“More interested in my studies than my peers. Y’know, the quiet, quirky, and nerdy type? Never went on a date, never had a real interest to. However, I did take a liking to familiarizing myself with those ridiculous memes from years ago. It was a rather interesting experience; learned just how relaxed and so much more hilarious the people were back then. Nowadays, we’re all just buzzkills focusing on being politically correct,” you recalled, chuckling lightly at the memories. 

“Now, what about college? We are heading into shaky territory, no? So, you can decline any questions if you feel inclined to do so,” she continued. 

You nodded in understanding. “College was a breath of relief really. There, I could finally focus on my areas of interest almost exclusively. Also, being treated like an adult was rather nice.” 

“What about after graduation?” 

Your breath abruptly caught in your throat, you momentarily forgetting to breathe. 

“Are you alright?” she asked, concern sparkling in her eyes. 

Snapping out of it, you nodded briskly. “Oh, yes. Those years were the best. Finally got to use my degree for something interesting.” 

“I heard that you met someone very renowned in your field. Can you tell me about that?” she prompted. 

You hesitated yet again, a sorrowful pang spreading through the center of your chest. “Yes, I did. He truly was a brilliant man, so eager and animated—truly dedicated to his work. He was the eccentric type and I was more on the quiet side, but we got along swimmingly, appalling most when they heard of our partnership. It was always amusing to watch the shocked faces of the incoming colleagues and interns for the other scientists working in the same complex. Too bad it all had to end... I had warned him it was too dangerous, too risky... ” 

“What was that?” Your voice had dipped so low, rendering it incomprehensible. 

Your clouded eyes immediately brightened, looking back up to her from your clasped hands. “Sorry, got a little distracted.” 

“You are from the Netherlands, yes?” she inquired. 

“Yup,” you nodded. 

“When did you learn English?” 

“My father’s family spoke English, but I never had spent enough time around them before they moved to England to pick up the lanaguge in full,” you replied. “I later learned it from an intern under a good friend of mine who happened to be from the states.” 

“Do you mind me asking what their name was?” 

“Her name was Gale, the intern of Dr. Harold Winston. She later found a job elsewhere and he was sent to the Horizon Lunar Colony, presumed dead after the primates aboard went mad,” you said, expression unwavering. 

“Who was _ your _ partner?” She very well knew who you had worked with previously, but wanted to test the waters, see if you were willing to say his name or speak about him. 

Your heart shattered all over again at the thought of him, what he had missed, was missing. He had had such a big future ahead of him, his ideas and genius mind fully capable of altering the world forever. It had been such a shame that his life had been cut short during the failure of an experiment that had ultimately led to your state. You couldn’t help but blame yourself for it... perhaps you should’ve tried harder to stop him, threatened to leave or something, but no, you had chosen to be at his side, wanting to reap the rewards for the machine if it was a success along side him or meet the same fate together. Neither situation had happened completely, you remaining alive and damaged without your lively accomplice. One second he had been smiling by your side, excitement coming off him in waves, the next violently ripped away from your world, apparently killed by the malfunction. 

“Dr. (Y/n), you’re crying. Would you like to skip this question?” You slowly lifted your hand to your cheek, stunned to find liquid tears streaming down it. Had his disappearance really hurt you that much? Had he meant that much to you to begin with? No, no, it wasn’t like you two were married or even more than close friends; you shouldn’t have been feeling that terribly painful grief and sorrow, it was _ selfish _ of you. Surely, he had had a family who was in the right to experience that excruciating grief, you not a part of that group. 

Human emotion was such a complex, fickle thing, a thing you had yet to map out. How heartbreaking it was to finally grow to enjoy someone’s presence only to have them die for reasons you were to blame for. You hadn’t even been able to attend his funeral, the wicked government isolating you, prompting the voices and hallucinations to appear. 

You, your reality, your work, your everything had just been _ shattered_, stolen in a matter of seconds. It had happened long ago yet you were still lost, desperately trying to pick up the pieces whilst drowning in pure anguish. At least he was in a better place, right? 


	3. First Encounters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> -Character introductions: Dr. Harold Winston, Dr. Siebren de Kuiper, Missy Jane, Gale Junior, more?
> 
> -Backstory 
> 
> -POV: Third person into second person
> 
> -Status: Completed(?), revised minimally
> 
> -This chapter is a mess, sorry!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I’m at a loss for words right now. This piece has gained _ much _ more attention than any of my other works... and this was only started a few days prior! Thank you all so much! I hope that I can continue to please you with my writing! :)
> 
> EDIT: Should I leave the dialogue in English or translate it into Dutch and provide English translations?

Crisp, colorful leaves had tumbled down the sidewalk, purely at the mercy of the wind, some falling from their withered branches to join them as well; hints of winter had hung in the scent of the chilly air, a foreshadow to what was to come in the next few months; and despite the unfavorable temperature, there was not a cloud in the sky, the sun casting the last of its radiant beams down to the hardening earth floor. Feet scuttling across the cracked stone tiles of the sidewalk, you buried your face deeper into the cozy nest of your scarf, hands digging deeper into the recesses of your coat, desperately clawing their way towards warmth. Your’s along side thousands of others’ warm breaths produced a white cloud of air upon their exhale, quite the contrary from the frigid gas it had been upon its inhale. Those with glasses who had had their cold-reddened faces buried deep into the collars of coats or precise stitching of colorful scarves had to do with partial visibility, their lenses rather irritatingly consuming the condensation they released with each mindless breath; at least each breath momentarily heated the painfully numb tips of their noses and rosy cheeks.

Despite the shiver-inducing, seasonally uncharacteristic, _ agonizing _ cold, many people still had crowded the busy streets, carrying out their lives per usual. Some clasped a steaming cup of rich hot chocolate, enchanting coffee, or their favorite colorful tea in their shaking, completely numb hands, relishing the blissful warmth the drink radiated from the cup. However, you had not been fortunate enough to have a cup of your favored hot drink in your possession or even an adequate pair of gloves on hand, you having been in a hurry to rush to work that morning. Usually, work began hours before scheduled at dawn per your strange preference, but you had caught the bug that so many had already succumbed to: oversleeping. If all went well, no one in your building would care to discuss or fret over your queer timing, just carrying out their days as normal and focusing on only themselves. It was true, scientists did tend to be rather selfish and reclusive, but that didn’t mean all were terrible people. Not rude, but extremely concentrated, studious, and dedicated to their work.

Legs tingling from the temperature, you had walked up the ancient steps leading to the archaic brick thing, the uniformed doorman swiftly opening the door upon your arrival. You silently thanked him with a nod, although not necessary, and stepped inside, exhaling a gentle sigh once the glass door shut, a wonderful warmth spreading from limb to limb, courtesy of the glorious heating system the building had had put in place long before your arrival. The granite-countered front desk had been left unattended, Ms Missy Jane probably fixing her artificially enhanced appearance before a mirror; she _ was _ the first face people saw when entering so, she was in the right for wanting to look neat to a T. However, she was the clerk in a _ research facility _, the men’s standards probably not held all too high like how the stereotype ridden movies foretold, if they were even interested in a partner that was.

Treading lightly upon the familiar grey carpeted floor, you had reached for your badge with stiff fingers, pulling it out of your coat pocket and scanning it before returning it to its previous residence. Then, you walked down the corridor that led straight back, it reinforced by a badge scanner connected to the one sitting upon the counter of the front desk. You continued down several hallways and up a few stair cases before you arrived to the sixth level, the place where your assigned lab was situated. Just last week, you had been stationed in a laboratory on the first floor, aiding an amateur physicist in a rather simple experiment and now, you were several tiers higher, due to meet whoever the man was you were to be working with. Apparently, he shared your same enthusiasm for out-of-the-box theories on space, but you honestly doubted that; no one else could have possibly been crazy enough to dare to dip their toes into the unknown and controversial like yourself. Who else could handle the persistent criticism and frustrating scarcity of information?

Once you were before the heavy metal door, you quickly scanned your badge, grumbling to yourself about your dumb decision to put it back in your pocket earlier. At the long table placed near the front of the spacious room stood an intimidatingly tall man who you assumed to be your partner. Your footfalls sounding lightly against the slick linoleum tiles, you walked to hang your coat upon the wooden coat tree, placing your scarf and bag on a hook as well. Then, you approached him, not speaking until directly beside him. He was a giant. “Hello. Sorry for keeping you waiting.”

Startled, he had turned to his right to find you, a welcoming smile brightening his angular, defined features, his cobalt blue eyes holding no traces of scorn nor anger. With one glance, you knew he was an eccentric. What could you say? You had had to deal with many of those in the past. “Why, hello there! And it’s alright, we all have slow mornings every once in a while,” he chuckled.

“I find your current concept fascinating,” he praised, mindlessly gesturing towards the papers he had been reading when you arrived.

Glancing briefly at the files lying spread out on the table, you asked, “Where’d you get those?”

“Oh, the nice woman at the front desk handed it to me upon my arrival. Said something about it being important to what we’ll be working on together.” His exuberance was already starting to get a little irritating. How could someone be so lively in the morning?

“Missy Jane,” you blurted flatly.

“Hm?” He raised a brow.

“That’s her name,” you clarified. “If you think she’s nice then you obviously haven’t met her. Charming and flirty, but not nice. She isn’t afraid to rip a man’s heart out and destroy it before his eyes. And she doesn’t just stop at men.” You paused. “Most of us just have learned to ignore her antics.”

“Oh.” His smile slowly ebbed away.

“Just let her be and you’ll be alright,” you advised, placing your palms against the cool surface of the table.

A rather uncomfortable silence fell over you two, him luckily coming to the rescue to save you both from the unease. “Dr. Siebren de Kuiper.” He extended his hand, his friendly smile returning.

You took his calloused hand into your own and shook it, replicating his demeanor. “Dr. (Y/n) (L/n). Nice to meet you, Dr. De Kuiper.”

“It is nice to meet you as well,” he replied with a nod.

“So, is this your first job?” you asked, not really knowing what to say to keep the awkward silences at bay.

“No,” he shook his head, looking away in bemusement, “I was a professor at the university not too far from here for a few years.” Then, he returned his steely-eyed gaze to you. “I’m guessing that you’ve been here for a while? Am I correct?”

“Yes, far too long some say,” you chortled, earning a light chuckle from him. How long had it been? What, over a decade now?

“What have you been working on while here?” he inquired, his head tilting to the side in the slightest.

“I was an assistant for at least two years before actually allowed to preform my own work. However, all my projects have been minimalistic, and I’m often times called to help the amateurs downstairs,” you explained, unconsciously folding your hands together before your chest.

“Ah,” he nodded, “those training periods are the worst.”

“What about yourself? What did you teach?” Your clasped hands fell to your sides, fingers gently tapping the sides of your legs absentmindedly.

“Astrophysics. Only a handful of my students were actually interested in the course, however,” he stated rather solemnly. “Teaching was fun, but no one else seemed to understand my passion. There is only so long someone can go in an environment where your facts seemingly fall upon deaf ears.”

“Exactly! I had worked day and night for _months_ on research papers only for the rest of the science community to heckle me for being ‘too unrealistic’.” Your voice lowered to a grumble. “Some people need an imagination.”

“Agreed. People nowadays are so fixated on the obvious that they refuse to acknowledge the cryptic possible. Isn’t that what scientific research is based on? Searching for the impossible because it may just exist?” There was a fire burning behind his placid grey-blue eyes, the flames starting to flicker their way through.

You nodded, a pang of nostalgia suddenly piercing through your heart. “Things were so much better when I was a kid, and that’s when I had fallen in love with the sciences. People seemed so much more imaginative, creative, and open-minded; maybe it was just a guise, but I sure had believed it.” You paused to think a moment. “Excuse my language, but this community needs to get its head out of its ass if we want to actually move forward. This bickering and dismissing of ‘crazy’ ideas is setting us back, too far back.”

Slowly, he shook his head almost sorrowfully. “It is such a shame that people have fallen into close-mindedness.”

You hummed in agreement, another silence blanketing the room.

The rest of the day had been littered with uncomfortable silences and awkward pauses as the two of you tried to get acclimated with each other’s presence. Every so often, you’d make a quip and he’d laugh, but most of the day was spent under a professional façade, the two of you going over the theory you wanted to try to prove. It had been a rather refreshing change of pace with having a partner who understood and embraced your outlandish ideas, one of the few firsts that had actually proven to be good.

“How is this going to work?” you sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose, referring to the rough sketch of a blueprint you two were hashing out. “None of this makes sense, not even to _me_. This—I know I swore I was never going to say this, but this is impossible!” You pulled at your (hair/length) hair, a frown souring the once lighthearted atmosphere. 

“Nothing is impossible if you put your mind to it,” he reminded, voice surprisingly soft.

“But this!” You angrily thrusted your finger towards the messy sketch and various formulas bordering it. “This doesn’t make any sense! How—?!” You firmly crossed your arms over your chest, fuming.

Then, he chuckled lightly, irking you further, before saying something that’d stun you into silence and deep reflection. “There is no obligation for the universe to make sense to you.”

* * *

  
As Dr. De Kuiper and yourself began packing up for the night, a familiar face had decided to pop in, his glasses set crooked on his face and his dark hair slightly disheveled. “(L/n)!” he whisper-yelled from the doorway.

At the sound of your surname, you spun around on your heel, turning to face who you quickly recognized as an old friend of yours: Dr. Harold Winston. A mock scowl contorting your face as you placed a hand on your hip, you replied, “Oh, it’s _you_.” However, you couldn’t keep up that expression, your hardened demeanor cracking and crumbling away to reveal a melodious laugh, your hand pressing against your stomach during your bout.

Harold chuckled along side you, smiling, “Glad to see that my presence is appreciated here.”

Ignoring your curious onlooker, you walked up to Harold and booped his nose, giggling lightly at the ridiculous action. He cocked a brow mischievously and teased, “Still familiar with those silly things from years ago?”

Of course you still remembered those early memes, they being your primary source of relatable comedy. You stuck your tongue out at him in response, laughing at yourself whilst doing so.

“You’re such a goof, (Y/n),” Harold stated, shaking his head.

You shrugged. “You chose to befriend this goof, Harry.”

His eyes narrowed at you and his arms crossed, frowning. “You know I hate that nickname.”

“That’s exactly why I use it,” you grinned.

Shaking his head once more, he leaned against the doorframe with his shoulder, his arms still crossed over his chest. “Who’s that?” He gestured towards your new partner who looked rather puzzled and confused.

“Oh, that’s Dr. De Kuiper; he’s my new partner,” you said.

“Don’t almost kill this one too; I think they’re running out of people willing to partner up with you,” he leered.

“Don’t worry, I’m not gonna kill him,” you reassured.

“‘Almost kill’? ‘Again’?” Dr. De Kuiper spoke up.

Shooting a glare at Harold, you turned to face the astrophysicist, “Don’t listen to him. _Harry_ here is just trying to scare you.”

Harold rolled his eyes at the stupid nickname.

Dr. De Kuiper nodded, returning to the papers he was organizing.

You returned your attention to Harold and jabbed him in the chest with your index finger. “I hate you,” you mouthed.

“I hate you too,” he mouthed back. Then, he straightened himself back upright. “I’d better be going. Gale and I have to get to a conference.”

“Gale Junior? That small girl from Bangladesh?” you replied.

“Born in Canada, but then moved to Bangladesh, yes,” he clarified, his professionalism returning.

“Is her family originally from there or something?” you asked. “Her name is oddly Western if that’s the case.”

“Yes, almost all of her relatives live there,” he stated. “I guess her parents liked the Western names?? It _would_ seem exotic in her home country.”

“Well, have fun at the conference,” you smiled with a wave.

“Thanks. You two have fun doing whatever you’re doing.” He waved. “Bye.”

You waved back and he walked away, the automatic door closing shut behind him.

“Who was that?” Dr. De Kuiper asked, closing the file folder that the now organized papers resided in.

“Oh? Him? He’s just a friend of mine from the states, Dr. Harold Winston,” you answered, walking over to him.

“It’s hard to understand some of what he was saying,” Dr. De Kuiper observed.

You nodded, chuckling lightly. “Yeah, his Dutch could use some work, that’s for sure. He’s teaching me English, and I’m helping him with Dutch. He’s _a lot_ better than he was at first though, could barely ask for someone’s name correctly.”

He nodded, zipping up his own coat and grabbing his belongings. “See you tomorrow?”

“Yup. See you then,” you replied. He walked to the door, but before he left, you stated with a friendly smile and a wave, “Have a nice night, De Kuiper.”

“You too, (L/n).” Then, the door closed, leaving you alone in the room. Quickly, you bundled yourself up and left the room, dreading the lengthy walk to the bus station.

By the time you had gotten outside, it was snowing, rendering the visibility almost nonexistent. Damn weather. You continued onwards, keen on hopping onto your bus and getting out of the cold. Your apartment was quite a few blocks away, but at least most of the city transit buses were heated. Eventually, you found the bus stop, got on the bus, and arrived back to the apartment complex, wasting no time to enter the building.

Once inside your bedroom and free from your coat, you flopped onto the bed, a pleased sigh escaping your chapped lips. Finally, home and warm at last.


	4. The Puppeteer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> -Character introductions: None
> 
> -POV: Third person into second person 
> 
> -Status: Completed(?), somewhat revised 
> 
> -This is another mess, sorry! 
> 
> -What is shown below is not a full-blown “episode” of the reader’s, but the beginnings of one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the support! As of now, October 24th, this has over 200 hits and 13 kudos! This amount of attention is tremendous and surpasses what I expected. 
> 
> As always, feel free to leave some constructive criticism and drop any kind of comment (expect for hateful or rude ones) that you please! I don’t mind nor do I bite!

“Dr. (Y/n). (Y/n)!” Suddenly, you were sucked back into reality seemingly by some sort of mental vacuum, the blindingly white environment sending needles of pain into your head. Stunned and rather confused, you looked to and fro, heart hammering loudly within your ears, the outside world muffled a great deal—it almost as if you were submerged in the deepest, darkest, most pressurized part of the vast oceans enshrouding the Earth’s crust. 

A gentle hand brought your focus to a woman slightly taller than you, her dark brows knitted with tendrils of fear slithering their way past her warm irises’ tranquil-like sheen. Who was she? Why was she touching you? How did she know your name? Where _and who_ on Earth were _you_? Shaking hands clasped together, you swiftly jerked your shoulder from under her tender hold, eyes narrowed to slits accusingly at the brunette stranger, those hostile actions seemingly not your own. 

“(Y/n), it’s okay. It’s me,” she whispered more pleadingly than authoritatively, hand reaching out towards you, eyes desperately begging, locked on yours. “You’re safe.” 

Your subconscious urged you to take her hand into your own, to trust her wholeheartedly with your security, but the puppet master had other plans, pulling on the strings just so so, you’d step away, scowling all the while. A low grumbling then emitted from the back of your throat, the action decided by some external force far out of your control. Some entity had kicked you out, rendering you a mere, aloof spectator who could only silently and helplessly watch the happenings from the back seat. The scariest fact was that you could do nothing to fight back against the force, it surpassing your strength in leaps and bounds. 

Before your brain had time enough to catch up with your eyes, a small, spiral light fixture had replaced the trembling yet composed woman, it clattering to the floor from her height and shattering violently upon impact, shards of glass spraying everywhere. A wretched scream soon followed, it bouncing rapidly from wall to wall, piercing your ears to the point of excruciating pain, prompting your hands to quickly move to cover the sensitive, essential mechanisms. Then, a sickening _thud_ sounded from just behind you, the wave of moving air rushing over your figure like a midsummer breeze, marking the screaming’s abrupt end. Heart trying to leap from your chest, you spun around on your heel, the woman from before now lying front-first on the fortunately padded floor, gasping for air. What had happened? The shaken woman barely knew herself. One moment she was trying to coax her patient, the next plummeting down from the several feet high ceiling. Albeit the ground was covered with thin sheets of stuffed fabric, the force from the fall had been enough to punch the breath from her lungs and possibly break a few ribs. 

A twinge of remorse flickered past your conscious mind, but was swiftly crushed by the malicious puppeteer. “W-who are you?” 

With a groan and pained expression, the woman heaved her aching body up, onto her knees with shaking arms, still struggling to regain her breath. “You—you know who... I am.” Her sentence was just barely audible, it interrupted by wheezing paired with a corresponding grimace. 

“Who are you?” your mouth demanded, tone firmer and more confident than before. 

“(Y/n)... ” She eyed you, a small frown draining the cheer that had once been on her face minutes prior. 

Grumbling, your arms crossed over your chest, your foot tapping expectantly. 

“Doctor... Irene Smith.” She struggled to squeeze out those three words, hand moving to clutch the right side of her torso, an inch or two beneath her breast. 

“How do you know me?” your mouth growled, foot coming to a still and eyes narrowing yet again. 

“You’re... my... patient.” She coughed, a ragged, uneven thing, and situated herself to sit with her legs loosely criss-crossed. 

“Patient?” your mouth scoffed. “I don’t need your help.” 

“What has... gotten into you?!” she exclaimed, face scrunching up immediately. 

“You’re a fool to think I’m something good, something to hope for,” your mouth sneered, looking down upon her weakened form. 

She reached into the pocket of her blazer, although reluctantly, and searched for the little device Reaper had given her long ago, using her remnant strength to press the large button. She didn’t wish for you to be rushed with soldiers, but your growing hostility and the notion that she could be dying had trumped her compassionate nature, her putting her well-being over your own. 

In a minute tops, the heavy door bursted open, apprehensive armed foot soldiers spilling inside, Moira making her way through the center of the swarm. Within the geneticist’s hands was a syringe full of some probably vile and toxic concoction, the magenta cover that had once covered the tip nowhere to be seen. As she approached the unsuspecting you, the metal needle shimmered beneath the harsh lights almost ominously. You had only noticed her presence once her hand had tightly gripped your arm, you instinctively moving to free yourself from her painful grasp. Her long nails painfully dug into your skin as you thrashed about, fearful of the terrible needle in her possession. Eventually, she just jabbed the thing into the base of your neck rather roughly, fed up with your writhing, the familiar prick making your body tense to the point of complete stiffness. As quickly as she had came, Moira left, offering a shoulder to Dr. Smith, the soldiers trailing behind her like mindless sheep, a few casting hatred-filled glances towards your frozen form; there was no way in hell they’d forgive you for killing several of their beloved comrades. 

Once the door slammed behind the crew, your mind snapped out of its haze, now aware of the silence and increasingly growing sluggish feeling in your limbs. In seconds, your body had dropped to the glass littered floor, unconscious. 


	5. Blame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> -Character introductions:
> 
> -POV: Second person 
> 
> -Status: Completed(?), minimally revised
> 
> -Short

To say you were pissed would be a grandiose understatement. You were fuming, body vibrating with fury as you sat upon the floor, back propped up against the wall. However, you refrained from acting out in any way, mostly because you couldn’t muster the strength to do so, a scowl the only exterior intimation of your true feelings locked inside the vault that was your intricate mind. Dr. Irene Smith had betrayed you, betrayed any trust you had had in her by ordering for your sedation. But was she really in the wrong? She had been hurt, injured and scared all thanks to your fickle abilities. Even if you had tried to do so, the image of her horrified expression stayed burned into your mind, unable to be pried out. It was technically your fault for everything albeit you could hardly remember what had actually happened. It always was, time and time again. 

Earlier, you had tried to haul your terribly limp body onto your feet, but quickly collapsed to the floor once you got your legs beneath you. After another day or so, the effects would hopefully entirely wear off, rendering you able bodied once more. Running your hands through your hair as best you could, you let out a harsh sigh, slightly pulling on the delicate strands. Why did you always mess up? Why couldn’t you remember anything but her sickening expression? You had no answers for yourself and neither did the others, most likely. If they did then, they would refuse to let you know the truth. 

It was no fib that you had willingly chosen to undergo the testing of the machine with the renowned astrophysicist, the very same machine that had ravenously tore your mind to shreds, rendering you absolutely fucked. The abstract abilities that had presented themselves shortly after were what some would call a gift, a blessing, however, that was certainly not so. Being able to swap the positions of any objects at will seemed neat, cool, like a party trick, but what most didn’t seem to realize when revering superhumans was how much tireless work it took to harness their power, how lonely it got when people swept you under the rug or isolated you out of fear, and, more importantly, how many people that got hurt on _your_ accord along the way. The guilt and remorse was suffocating, but with no mentor to help you finely tune your new instrument, that was the only way to make progress: trial and error. Unfortunately, many a people had been caught in the storm of your failures, rendering most deceased. 

Just a month prior, you had lost control, well, that’s was Moira had told you at least. Soldiers had stormed your cell, weapons raised in the air, their eyes darting to a fro. They had been scared, _terrified_, and rightfully so. Unbeknownst to them, they would be released from the clutches of Talon in a matter of minutes. They continued to creep forward, tiptoeing as if they were going to jump scare you; however, you had been well aware of their presence, but chose not to reveal it, continuing to stare at the barren wall. The platoon was soon behind you, looking around at each other with that same shared expression of fear plastered on their faces beneath their evil glowing red masks. It could be the end for them or the beginning. The latter most certainly didn’t turn out to be true. 

In a flash, you had spun around to face the group of practically defenseless infantrymen, your cold stare striking fear into their hearts and chilling them to the bone. They all had come to an abrupt halt, frozen in place as they awaited your next move. However, you chose not to move either, eyes still locked on their armored figures. 

“Monster,” one had hissed, venom laced in his gruff voice. That single word insult had been the catalyst for what was to come. With fury alight in the center of your chest, your (e/c) narrowed threateningly, a scowl marking your hatred, and then, you swapped places with the soldier beside the foolishly boisterous one. Swiftly, you knocked his helmet from his head and your hands wrapped tightly around the housing of his vital windpipe. His face paled as your grip grew stronger, his gun clattering to the floor as he moved his hands to claw at yours, desperately trying to rip them from his throat. However, you were stronger which denominated his pitiful struggling futile. Despite knowing that he stood no chance against you, he continued to thrash and gulp for air. Eventually, annoyance set in and you snapped his neck with a swift motion. The other soldiers’ stomachs twisted as they heard the wretched snap and watched his limp body join his gun upon the floor. 

Everything had been still, the soldiers not daring to move. They were well versed in the brutality and sheer strength you had in your arsenal of tricks. Then, your gaze passed over each one as if you were challenging another one to step forward and test their luck like their now broken-necked friend. For a moment, they looked to each other, a few hushed whispers drifting from one another. However, the stillness didn’t last for much longer. In a synchronized fashion, they all charged after you, dropping their guns to the floor as they had been told that (C/s) needed to be kept alive. With tooth and nail, they fought hard against you, hoping, praying, that they could swarm you into submission or at least render you unconscious. The fire in your chest was only fed by their weak attempt to avenge their fallen friend. 

The aftermath had made Moira’s knees shake and Reaper’s stomach wrench. Blood bathed the once pearly white room, it so fresh that it was still slowly dripping down the slick walls; destroyed corpses laid idle on the floor, some missing a finger to an entire half of their body, their crimson life force pooled around them; the only complete bodies that remained were those with a sickening, visible, unnatural bend in their neck and blood oozing out from their agape mouths. The carnage was so graphic it had made half the cleanup crew gasp and quickly turn away to vomit from the wicked site; some couldn’t even believe their eyes as they hadn’t even known that one could be capable of such gruesome and violent behavior. It had been the worst of your outbursts yet and who knew what else was to come. 


End file.
